Blood Moon Hair Miracles

The Pope addressed Congress for the first time this week. Kanye really is running for President in 2020. Tonight I viewed the Super Moon Lunar Eclipse. The last time this happened was 1982.

The biggest and best news as far as I'm concerned is that I had a great hair day and I did it all by myself!

There are those people that can manage a blow dryer AND a brush at the same time. Said people can even move them simultaneously. I have never been that person. I am familiar with the smell of burnt hair.

I can't really even blow dry someone else's hair that well either. I'm accused constantly of burning holes through my daughter's fragile skull. I'm all 80's and 90's folks. Perms all the way. Dry naturally, throw in rollers. Done.

I watched Wendy Williams this week and ordered an International Hair Dryer Stand. Or maybe it was on GMA. Regardless, that's the best 20 something dollars I've spent in years.


My set up was slightly different. I had pink duct tape on that second black stripe area because for 20 bucks the pole doesn't really adjust to the right height. I also had my fan on top of the counter because as you all know I sweat. I was nude. (nekkid in Texan.) My hair actually looked stock photo product selling friendly. I even sectioned off portions of my hair, just like they tell you to.

I was blissful when my almost 14 year old said, "Mom, your hair looks amazing."

I don't mean to brag; but, I'm pretty sure I caused the Super Blood Red Moon Eclipse of the entire world with my shiny, sleek smooth hair. Astronomers and photographers--you're welcome.

Invisibility

I was in a hurry. Which makes me sweat. It was August in Dallas. Which makes me sweat. I was a teensy bit anxious. Which makes me sweat. I am menopausal. Enough said.

I was wearing a fitted poly-knit shirt in light blue. I dashed into my Neighborhood Wal-Mart Market and bought that special occasion antiperspirant guaranteed to clog up your sweat glands and keep rings the size of your head from developing under your pits. (It will probably give me dementia or cause long term hearing loss. I don't care. Sweating at work is gross.)

With the truck on and the air conditioner blasting in my face, I bit off the edge of that evil plastic ring thing. I yanked up my shirt, lifted my left arm and rolled the clear container as fast as I could click the bottom. I repeated on the right side. I remembered what happens to endowed women in heat and started applying there as well.

As I lifted my gaze, I saw movement in the car parked in front of me. Through the tinted windows, I saw an older man with eyes wide open. Think surprised Marty Feldman. He was wiping his hand over his brow.

Bless his heart. I either scared him into cardiac arrest or I gave him the worst peep show of his life. Maybe both. And he thought he was gonna nap while Ethel bought milk of magnesia and paper towels.

Amazing how quickly things shoot through my mind....I thought, "What would Carol do? "
"NOTHING!!! CAROL would NEVER put deodorant on in her car!"

Carol, my older sister is the portrait of refinement and grace.

"I'm NOT Carol!"
"Dang."
"This is gonna be a GREAT blog!"

"WWLD?"

I met his gaze, smiled crookedly and waved while cackling aloud.

Granted, I was in a hurry...but some of you are asking the obvious question, "Lori, do you think you're invisible?"

Well.

Kind of.

I'm not sure exactly when it happened; but, I stopped being noticed in public. I didn't realize it at first. I can't even pinpoint a year, really. I just woke up and I was the weird person staring at someone else at stoplights. I was the lady who got handed a receipt without a glance. I was getting shoulder bumped because people were looking down or away from my face--YEARS before cell phones. Whether it was weight gain, the blank expression, motherhood, emotional indifference, or some sort of super power, I was living without being seen.

That's helpful sometimes. For example, don't you kind of feel anonymous in the drive through at Dairy Queen or McDonalds? Chick-fil-A is harder because it's always their pleasure to serve you. It's freeing to go to a movie alone with a trough of popcorn and sense that no one is glancing your way. This is probably my craziest idea....but somehow I always think that I'm particularly ghost-like while jogging outside. People avoid looking at fatties exercising in public. (I promise you I'm right. If you're skinny, you don't know.) Aside from jerks who might roll down a window to remind me I've got junk in my trunk, "Wow? Really I had NO IDEA!", I feel like people never even notice me. Fat is my invisibility cloak. OK, maybe there are some skinny girls who are glad that at least she's trying. They're also secretly hoping I've always been fat--thus their immunity from future public humiliation.

Having spent my early years clamoring for any and all attention I could direct my way, I found it relaxing to NOT be noticed. One summer when Annie Beth was a toddler, I attended a psychology conference with Richard. He was getting continuing education hours and I was particularly impressed by the speaker in a pre-conference seminar. There was a discount for spouses, so we paid the money and I attended.

James Olthius had just published his book, The Beautiful Risk and the seminar was both lecture and process oriented. What I learned challenged my new found freedom. Without a dry lesson on early attachment theory, I can frame a portion of Olthius' thinking in a few lines. Imagine an infant. (If you pause at the end of each sentence it helps to absorb the concept) He calls this the Love Pattern.
I see.
I see you.
I see you seeing me.
I am seen.
I feel loved.

I (is forming)

I see.
I see you.
I love you.

We (is forming)

This is also true with hearing; but, for my point today, we're focusing on being seen.

What was particularly troubling at the time was his next point with the variables reversed.
   A Nonlove Pattern

I see.
I see you.
I see you not seeing me.
I am not seen.
I am not loved.

Am I?

I? see.
I? see you?
I? //// you.

We?

Of course there are many variables involved with this theory; but, I began to understand that for me, this invisibility I was experiencing was far more than just a not being noticed issue. It was an awakening in two ways:

1. It helped me recognize a void of feeling loved.
2. It made me aware that I had power to help others feel loved with eye contact and listening. (the other key variable.)

You ever meet one of those children who is all arms, legs, and volume just to get acknowledgment from you? Lack of connection makes us all a little like that initially. Eventually, it can also result in withdrawal and depression, even death. In my case, I was just too tired and too spent to clamor for attention. I'd become unsure of who I was.

There are plenty of short cuts and substitutes. But....human connection, real connection is hard work and living with the illusion of wearing an invisibility cloak isn't a great option. It's impossible to force others to respond in a way you'd like them to. For me, that involved major shifts of personal patterns and eventually a decision to end my marriage.

I did discover that intentional eye contact with people makes a difference--especially with people who might be accustomed to being ignored. I don't remember names anymore--including my 3rd cat....sidebar. I feel so sorry for child 3 of 4 or more in a family. They NEVER get called the right name. I don't know the names of the employees at McDonalds and Chicken Express; but, I know who they are. I do know Paige at Chick-Fil-A because she tells me so every school morning at 7:00 am. I'm never going to invite any of them to my home. But, they are people I see every day and they matter.

I KNOW I'm not invisible and my esteem isn't dependent upon the constant recognition of others anymore; but, I do promise to be more concerned with stripping in my car from this point on. Should I forget next time, I'll tap on the window and offer that poor man some sweat proof deodorant. If he comes prepared with his granddaughter's iPhone, I'll be grateful he won't know how to post on Instagram.

Investment Strategies

I am intentionally redundant writing that I never, ever, ever imagined I'd be divorced.

When I allowed myself the liberty of the mere thought to dwell in waking moments, I started watching and listening to the stories of divorced people. Before that point, I largely ignored divorce stories and judged people for their failure. With compassion, of course. (The lies we tell ourselves.)

I thought I was hearing this story, no matter which party you were speaking to--jilter or jiltee, his family or her family:
"He's crazy. I'm not."
"She's crazy, I'm not."
"We hate him. She's been hurt....and it's HIS fault."
"We hate her. He's been hurt....and it's HER fault."*

I was right. That is a consistent script.

I filed for divorce six years ago. Our jury trial--yes, that happens in Texas, Georgia, and New York if one party requests it--ended 4 years ago after Labor Day.

I have my own story now. I could convincingly argue that the Lori Hudgins Clark saga is unique. I'll pad this for myself and say aloud, "Bless your narcissistic little heart, Lori. You're plebeian. Status quo."

But pain hurts. And our stories are important. Story validates our pain, especially in the telling and re-telling.

Pain demands response.

We get to decide how we react. I've chosen every possible option and made up several, I'm sure. Status quo story is blame-- avoidance at it's finest.

Blaming keeps us stuck in pain. I found that taking the partial cause approach is far more effective in managing the impact of the onslaught from external and internal voices.

I had to hire a slew of psychology experts in the course of my divorce. The family forensic psychologist listened intently to my story and said, without fanfare, "All that may be true, but you married the f&$%er and stayed for 21 years."

I made the choice to marry at 22. I stayed even when I had no hope for change. I am an imperfect person who would rather talk than clean. I hoard stuff for the possibility of needing it in the future. I demand emotional intimacy from my partner. Ironically I have an extremely high level of tolerance for neglect. When I married, I was the poster child for codependency. There are the legs of my story. Partial cause.

Annie Beth and I saw a fabulous production of Into the Woods on Sunday. If you aren't familiar with it, there is a scene when the principal characters are trying to appease an angry giant. "Your Fault" is the complicated blaming game.

They realize that all of them are at least partially responsible for the giant's unwanted presence. It's tricky and dangerous business to say that any one person is completely responsible for pain.

He has his story which doesn't match mine. In order for me to move forward, I have to accept this.

Intentional rabbit trail.

Shortly after I filed for divorce, my oldest nephew graduated from high school. Obama was well into his first term as President. The week before the trial began, my sister took her second child to college. Second child graduated in May and starts her first job today. Obama is at the tail end of his second term. My friends that got married in 2009 are about to deliver their nicely spaced third baby.

While there is value understanding the why's of what happened--particularly so that I don't repeat the same process again. It's obvious that four years can change the course of history.

Years are just strings of days. Days are collections of hours. Minutes are filled with a multitude of thoughts.

I've discovered in quiet places that I am becoming the product of dwelling in acceptance that I am enough. I also say aloud, "Let it go!" I sing it as often as I say it. I choose not to spend the bulk of days feeling angry over what I feel I didn't deserve. And now that the years are fleeting past me, I'm grateful that I am living fully instead of dying slowly.

I get to decide. Do I invest my time in love or bitterness?

*I linked Your Fault right there because, well, that's when the music should be cued in this blog.

Mirror, Mirror Why are you so honest?

I thought I knew about fashion, hair, and makeup until I had a teenager.

Having given that sentence some thought, I realize that I could fill in the blank after I thought I knew about with ANYTHING as long as it's followed by: until I had a teenager.

There was a time when I would confidently walk into say, Foley's and know exactly what to buy. Back in the days when I was skinny--and didn't know how to appreciate my shape, there were still plenty of things that didn't look good on me. And. I knew it. 

Even after I wasn't skinny, I knew that certain styles looked better than others. I had confidence in my selections. I knew how to minimize, hide, or enhance. I was an expert at not being noticed.

I've never been that concerned with makeup; but, I knew the big things to avoid--yellow based colors and that less was more.

Two things happened almost simultaneously:

1. I aged.

2. My child turned 13. (Actually it was more like 11--but that jacks up my opening thesis.)

I didn't get a choice about grey hair. It happened without my permission. Neither did I say while scrubbing a pan, "If only I could have hair that felt like this SOS pad!"

I remember Mom telling me that there would come a day when I wouldn't have to shave my legs as often because the hair wouldn't grow as fast. Awesome! What I didn't plan on and honest to goodness didn't put together until it happened, was that it slows down EVERYWHERE. That includes your head and eyelashes and eyebrows! (Correction...my bikini line still grows with vigor---which is just satanic.)

Although I was adequately warned about sun damage---I was convinced that a dark tan in the summer eclipsed thin, leather skin when I was old and married with kids. Who cares what your Mom looks like? She's in her forties!! No one notices HER! 

I'd heard something about skin tones changing with age; but, that was for grandmothers. Who cares? Grandmothers are old and no one notices them anyway. It truly never crossed my mind that when my elderly client's light pink powder blush looked like colored flour brushed on by a toddler that perhaps that shade looked fabulous on her 35 years earlier. Or that she couldn't see her face in the mirror anymore. More importantly I really, really didn't consider that she might still be interested in looking and feeling attractive despite her age.

What never occurred to me at age 17 was that I would age, at least not visibly. I was going to avoid that, through, you know, starving, being nice, and making sure people liked me. My world then could never encompass that I would have A child and not be married in my forties.

Back to real world aging.....

I won't even touch on wrinkles, hot flashes, zits during menopause, chin whiskers, and arms that aren't long enough to read menus. Cropped shirts worn bra-less aren't an option because your boobs are longer than the top. Long and lean only applied to legs or fingers in the past.

Now. If my self esteem wasn't in question enough, let's for fun add a teenager who is obliged to TELL you the items you might have missed. 

Your teeth. "Mom! Your teeth are gold. Gross." 

In more polite moments, "Mom! Did you know you can buy whitening strips from Target?" 

Hooded eyelids---"Wow, I'm so glad I didn't get those floppy skin things on my eyes! Do they get WORSE with age?"

Another reminder about hair---"Mom! Can I brush your hair and show you how it's done?"

The hair comment happened LAST night! Internally I said, "You want me to take that $12.00, wet hair brush and shove it up your nose?"

Instead, I recalled all my diatribe this past month that I thought went unheard. 

"My hair is FRIZZY!"  

"I can't get the ratio right on coconut oil! It's broom hair or Elvis!" 

"Screw it. No one is looking at my hair!" 

Except I am. And I still care.

Instead, I said, "Sure! I'd love for you to brush my hair." 

Here's what happened. With expertise and kindness, my YouTube obsessed daughter spent less than 20 minutes on my hair and it looked better than it has in years. (no exaggeration.) It turns out that she was listening. AND....Things HAVE changed and improved since I learned in the late 70's. That wet hair brush really is perfect for my wirey, grey hair disguised as medium brown. YouTube can teach you anything you want to learn.

I've changed too. What worked then doesn't work now in all cases. I do think the undertones of pink in my skin are being replaced with some yellow. I am happy that living in Oregon cured me of my need to wear makeup in public. Yet, I'm still not at the point I'm happy about a sales associate at JC Penny asking, "Have you ever thought about wearing makeup? Our Sephora associates are happy to teach you."

To be Sue Sylvester or Madea.

This morning I was getting dressed for a big presentation we're doing for our company, thera-LINK and I had an epiphany....

to look like what I did in the past, I spent about 30 minutes to an HOUR every single day before I stepped out of the house. 

And if I had a date or something later, I'd freshen up AGAIN. I doubt I'll ever invest that again--even though I really need it now more than I ever did in my youth. 

I had a client once who oft said, "Youth is wasted on the young." I, out of courtesy, laughed at her joke.

I understand now.

It's astonishing to realize that the person who was utterly dependent on me just 14 years ago, can teach me things I didn't realize I needed to learn. She can help me replace tired, outdated methods with efficient, modern ones. And having lived through many decades, I know that some current trends aren't worth any investment of money. Remember floral, bubble jumpsuits for adults? And a matching one for your infant girl. (Mine was red corduroy. The red bow flats are used for my Snow White costume now. Annie Beth is beyond relieved she wasn't a glimmer of a thought during that fashion era.)

I can learn and grow no matter my age. My knees may creak when I stand up. It might take an hour for the stitch marks embedded on my cheek from my 15 minute catnap on the leather couch to disappear. And the days of wash and go hair that actually looks presentable are gone.  But there are ponytails--even if someone might be tempted to sweep with mine.

I am convinced of something else,

          Smiles and joy trump good hair and makeup.

Here's to inner growth, loving extravagantly and aging realistically-- with a sincere hope that perms make a valiant comeback.